


Tell Me What You Want Until It Hurts

by gayunsolved



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Choking, Dirty Talk, Disobeying Orders, Filthy, Good lord what have I written, Hair-pulling, M/M, Multi, References to Depression, SMUT SMUT SMUT Wow, Safe Word Use, Seriously I am so sorry, This is a whole Sin, gagging, safe word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 23:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13375587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayunsolved/pseuds/gayunsolved
Summary: It was no wonder that Athos was the captain of the King's Musketeers. But sometimes someone else needs to give the orders.





	Tell Me What You Want Until It Hurts

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sambuka by Pierce the Veil
> 
> Good fucking lord, this is filth. Not beta read or edited so it's probably shit. I apologize in advance.

It was no wonder that Athos was the captain of the King’s Musketeers. He was headstrong, quick-thinking, brilliant. But the trait that separated the captain from the other Musketeers was not his wit nor his skilled swordsmanship, but the darkness brewing in the deep recesses of his mind. Behind closed doors and under leather armour, Athos was a rogue storm, all ominous clouds and erratic fits of rain. Treville kept close tabs on the troubled man, having seen the pain cloud the very existence of him before. The worst time by far had led to Aramis and Porthos sitting with Athos in the garrison for weeks on end, regretfully neglecting their duties as Musketeers in order to keep their captain (and lover) from destroying himself in the throes of such a time. The customarily self-reliant Athos was confined to his bed, where his wrists were bound to keep him from harming himself, fragile as he was. Aramis, being the more patient of the two other musketeers, had fed and bathed him, since he was not trusted to do so himself. Athos would stay awake for days on end, his eyes wide with silent terror at the nightmares that kept him awake. It took weeks of fastidious care and patient words to bring Athos to a place where he could even think to take up the pauldron and dagger again, and even then some residue of his suffering remained, in his head and in the rawness of his wrists. 

It was no wonder that Athos was the captain of the King’s Musketeers, but that didn’t mean he yearned for control in perpetuum. After countless fortnights being restrained for his own safety, Athos got a taste for the roughness of rope around his wrists, for the ability to give the reins to someone else, even in his most sober moments. Of course, Aramis and Porthos were more than happy to play along. Fearlessly leading the Musketeers through long and dangerous journeys on horseback and going days without rest or nourishment took a certain toll on Athos. Those were the times when he most needed to be restrained and let someone else (namely Porthos) take control. 

Thus, it was on this rainy evening, when the three soldiers rode back into the garrison at 42 Rue Des Anges, that Athos found himself unsteady on his feet, and he felt the familiar storm brewing in his cerebral depths. Porthos immediately took note of this, and, after sharing a look with Aramis, wrapped his strong arms around the captain and carried him to the room that belonged to Aramis, but was ideal for when the three of them were looking to be left alone, considering it was farthest from where Treville worked into the hours of the night. In this room, draped with burgundy cloth and lit with a dim lantern, Porthos helped Athos to sit on the bed. The captain was trembling, his hand instinctively grasping the hilt of his rapier. Porthos gently took Athos’ still gloved hand in his own. 

“So, Athos, love, is it a bindin’ type of night,” Porthos practically purred, “or not?”  
By now, Porthos knew that Athos dealt with his problems not with words but with sweet honeyed alcohol and the sweet sting of pain. He and Aramis had long ago taken it into their gloved hands to keep Athos safe and sated. “Yes, please,” the captain muttered in a low tone, “I need you to be in control.” Porthos grinned, the scar tissue down his cheek crinkling slightly. Though he was not the captain, nor anywhere close, Porthos had a dominant strike in him, more than Aramis, certainly, and enough to scare D’Artagnan into obeying his orders. Times like these were where this side of the larger man shone through. He quickly stripped himself and Athos of their weapons and outer armour, while Aramis did the same and bustled around, preparing for the night ahead. Soon Athos was laid out on the four poster bed, wrists bound together at the headboard and ankles bound to the two end posts. He was bare except for his breeches, which were straining already, and he was truly a sight to behold. Aramis stood back and drank in the dark hair that contrasted so beautifully with Athos’ alabaster skin and the way it formed such an enticing trail down his slightly muscled torso. Porthos, however, who was now completely naked, wasted no time in touching the captain with his calloused hands. His fingertips just barely brushed Athos, but he could physically feel the tension beginning to depart the man’s body. “Remember, Athos, safe word’s Cardinal.” Athos groaned, but nodded. “If y’can’t talk, clap your ‘ands twice,” Porthos instructed, his voice calm and loving. Athos said nothing, instead basking in the warmth of Porthos’ love and body heat. 

“Look at you, love, all spread out like a market wench,” Aramis murmured from where he was reposing against the bed post. “I may go to hell for how much I want you right now, Athos, but you are too beautiful to resist.” Porthos grunted in agreement, his mouth occupied with fervently kissing Athos, who was beginning to relax into the feather mattress. The captain, desperate as he already was, rutted up against Porthos’ stomach where their bodies intersected. Porthos broke the kiss, out of breath and getting more aroused by the moment. He quickly climbed off of Athos and stepped back to where Aramis stood, slowly stroking himself, eyes half closed as he turned to his fellow Musketeer. “Look at ‘im, Aramis, already ‘ard, ’n’ we ‘aven’t even started…” Aramis’ smile widened and he stopped touching himself to bury his hands in Porthos’ hair, pulling him into a bruising kiss. Porthos smiled against the smaller man’s mouth. They were interrupted by a gruff Athos. “You going to touch me yet or is this just a show you’re putting on?”   
“Be patient, love,” Porthos cooed, still wrapped up in Aramis.   
“I am your captain, gentlemen. I demand you to touch me.”   
Porthos raised a thick eyebrow, amused, but undeniably aroused.   
“Athos, I thought y’didn’t want control? ’N’ now y’think you can give orders?”  
“I am the captain of the Musketeers. I can-“  
Athos was cut off by a musket rag being shoved into his mouth by Aramis, who had stepped aside to stand next to Athos’ face. Porthos beamed at Aramis, who bent to tie the gag behind Athos’ head. “I think our little captain-“ he honeyed the word with wryness “-will not need to give any more orders tonight. He’s all ours.” Porthos hummed in agreement as he curled himself around Aramis once more, his left hand moving to the smaller man’s throat instinctively.   
“Look, Athos, I can keep on lovin’ Aramis, ’n’ you can lie there an’ watch. Poor cap’n Athos, won’ get touched…” Porthos laughed, a roar of joy in the quiet of the room. Aramis went to speak, his lips parted, but no words came out. Porthos chuckled again, low and warm, as his hand wrapped securely around Aramis’ throat. 

Aramis knew, from the hours he spent in bed with Porthos, even before they began with Athos, that Porthos had a proclivity for choking, for making Aramis short of breath and silent. He did not expect, however, that this particular time Porthos would use his other hand to pull his hair back roughly, exposing ever more of his throat, and making Athos squirm on the bed where he lay, ignored. “Oh, ‘Mis, look, Athos likes that, don’t he? ‘E likes when I’m rough with you, right?” Athos nodded as best he could, straining against his binding, relishing the scratch of the rope against his wrists. “Mmhmm,” Porthos purred against Aramis, “I’ve gotta be rough, I reckon, make ‘im all bothered ’n’ leave him for hours until our poor cap’n is cryin’.” Athos closed his eyes, drowning in his fellow soldier’s rough words. Even bound and aroused as he was, the stubbornness inside Athos rose like a horse frightened in battle. I will not cry. I am strong, I am the captain, Athos thought, resolute in his head but outwardly desperate. He could not prevent a small whimper from escaping behind the gag. The two men standing beside him both drank in the sound, perfect and despondent. Porthos let go of Aramis at the two points where he held him, and he fell forward slightly before being caught up again in the strong arms of his lover. “Be as rough as you need, my good Porthos, for we exist only to please our Athos,” he mused, his voice affected by lack of air. “After all, he is,” he paused, smirking at Athos, “our captain.” Aramis could feel the low rumble of Porthos’ laugh against his back as he laughed and laughed. He could also feel Porthos’ erection, but he was pointedly ignoring that. This was about Athos. Athos, who was pulling against his restraints, trying to speak but unable to with the cloth crowding his mouth. Athos, who was struggling to twist his bound wrists the right way. Athos, who clapped twice, his whole body tense and eyes leaking hot tears. Immediately, Porthos released Aramis and rushed to untie their captain, rubbing his wrists and ankles soothingly. Aramis undid the gag and helped Athos to sit. “My love, are you alright?” Athos nodded shakily, tears still running rampant down his face. “M’sorry,” he whispered, not meeting the concerned gazes of his lovers. “I just…I need not to be in control…but perhaps not in this manner…” Porthos hummed knowingly, hands still rubbing Athos’ scraped up wrists. “Course, Athos, whatever you need. We’re ‘ere for you, y’know.” Athos smiled, crooked but genuine. 

Sunrise found them entangled in each other, lust having bled into affection and tenderness. When Athos awoke, having slept longer than both of his lovers, Aramis and Porthos helped him to the bathhouse to clean and soothe him. It was no wonder that Athos was the captain of the King’s Musketeers. After all, only a captain could be loved so wholly.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read all the way through this, I am So Sorry. Leave a comment letting me know if you hated it or not, or if you have suggestions for what to write next. 
> 
> Thanks.


End file.
